The 11th of July passed with absolutely no notice of mine. I'm fairly sure I noticed it last year, the anniversary of me being kickbanned from the UK. The beginning of the end, you might say.

And it's strange now, this feeling of emptiness in my chest. I'm not really sure what to name it, if there is indeed a name for this feeling.

I can't believe that I was that girl in the year 2000, so completely blindsided and hopeful and stupidly thinking every little thing is gonna be alright. That used to be my mantra, you know. Fucking Bob Marley. It came from me sitting in the bedroom of one of my old roommates, stoned out of my gills and talking so much shit about how my life was going to be. How it was to be green and golden. Every little thing is gonna be alright. I repeated it to myself over and over again, a futile chanting invocation against the powers that be, as I curled in a ball in the detention center at Heathrow International.

I repeated it to myself every single time his words arced through me, every little stab and prick of that ignorant knife. Every little thing is gonna be alright. I said it each morning when I opened my eyes and prepared to drudge through another nine hours of work that I despised. For him. For me. There was a meaning, there was a point. I was getting through this. I was going to walk through this dark tunnel to the light on the other side.

I repeated it to myself when he left me broken. I repeated it when he told me I'd forgotten how to dream. I repeated it when he compared me to his psycho ex-wife. Every little thing is gonna be alright.

I repeated it when I met the Engineer and schemed to make him mine. I repeated it every time I saw the Cheshire Cat and his grin at my arrival. I sang it to myself on the empty nights where I kicked myself for being so thoughtless. Every little thing is gonna be alright.

An endless loop, those seven small words. Constant run through my brain. It was my sword and shield. My proof that all of my efforts were for something. I drove alone up to Irish Hill in the middle of the night and screamed it at the sky, as my mother lie sick and near dying in the hospital. I held her hand and whispered it under my breath as she drifted, motionless, in a morphine haze. Over and over again.

My grandmother dying at home, starved to death because there was nothing else we could do for her but pump in more drugs. Letting her sip her Tanqueray through a straw, to hell with the nurses.

My father covering his face from me, hiding his tears.

Losing my job last summer.

My friend, Henry, dying two Halloweens ago. Far from his friends and refused the dignity of his religion to deliver him from this coil.

Every fight I've had, all the biting words I've thrown and had sent back to me on a goddamn gleaming platter.

All of it, each time: Every little thing is gonna be alright.

But, it's not going to. Is it? It never is. There's always something else, getting in the way. Always something bigger and worse to push us back down.

It's all fucking temporary. And I'm tired of deluding myself into believing that I'll make it out of each obstacles with my feet under me and a smile on my face. I'm sick of it. It's foolish.

This is temporary.I'll not play the fool any longer.

I'll get through whatever is thrown at me. Not because of the good grace of God, but of my own voalition. My own steam. I'm Queen of this fucking shitheap and it would behoove the Fates to grasp that notion and mark it in their fucking dayplanner.

Rehashed some moments of the past, this evening. And yes, I laughed my silly fool head off whilst doing so. But, I still feel anger. And pain. And dissatisfaction. And the urge to just snap the neck of all parties concerned.

I don't trust easily. Or often. So therefore it hurts all the more when that trust is taken by those I love and ground into the dirt under bootheel.

You turned me into this.

I called you a friend, I called her a friend. And both of you saw fit to take the word 'friend' and transform it into a blade. Then slammed that knife directly into my exposed and vulnerable back.

It makes me laugh.

Not really.

6...7...all good girls go to heaven...

Not many people have seen me fully in the throes of anger. The seething corned cat, fingers curled into twisted claws, spitting ball of hate. Yes, some of you have seen me spew profanity until the air is blue and thick with it. But, you've never been allowed to see the ire that curdles just below the surface.

They drove me to that point.

And at that moment in time, I could have cheerfully disemboweled any one of them with my bare hands. I still could, especially when I go back and read her words again. Read how wrong I apparently was for feeling so abused. How I was obviously so damaged and deranged because I apparently couldn't let go of my pain.

I hope you still feel guilt for what you did to me. I hope it's burned a comet trail through the sky of your sight. And I hope you cry at night, in the wee and lonely hours, for knowing what you've lost.

My mind was full of such strange thoughts last night, I could barely contain them. Nothing bad, per se. Just bizarre little musings in my head about my life, recent past relationships, the differences between the then me and the now me, etc. Fun stuff, right? Right.

I suppose it's better when I stand outside on my smoke break and wonder how the fuck Iceman from the X-men comic/Spider Friends cartoon in the 80's coasted on ice to get where he was going. How does the ice fucking stay up? Why doesn't the shit melt? Could he go over the Atlantic Ocean like that?

I need sleep. And a lot of it. heh.

That bizarre little musing also reminded me of an ex-roommate, Demond. Mainly because this one time when he was stoned, he had started laughing at our other roommate, Tony of Destruction, and said, "He thinks he's motherfuckin' ICEMAN an' shit!"

This became a kind of catch phrase amongst the group of us for a time, said when we felt someone was playing the cool game. Or when we just wanted to torture Demond, which was always.

Leaving to drive my mother to chemotherapy in about ten minutes. Today, I don't have to stay there with her as my brother's driving up to meet her there. I drove her home from work on Tuesday and stayed home, thus missing half a day. Therefore, I decided his unemployed ass can take her to chemo today so I don't miss any more time at work.

I hear REM on someone's radio in my office. This is somehow intriguing. It half reminds me of high school, dancing in a playground in the middle of the night with someone's little tape recorder playing this song. And it half reminds me of Richard's father, in a pub with a guitar, leading a rowdy group of drunken rugby players at a bachelor party to sing this song.

ometimes, when I'm feeling particularly sadistic and blamey, I like to wonder what exactly in my life has been real and what hasn't. It's a wonderful game. And it makes all the many knife wounds in my back and through my heart twist in a remarkable manner.

oh Elise, believe I never wanted this.I thought this time I'd keep all of my promises.I thought you were the girl I'd always dreamed about.But, I let the dream go.The promises broke.The make believe ran out.

It has become very obvious to me that love is really only a measure of how much pain a person can inflict upon you. The more you love someone, the more they can hurt you.

And I'm not talking little piddling kind of hurt. I speak of the big pain. Capital P. Wounds. Scars. Crippled fucking hearts. The same kind of pain that left me in a gibbering pile of sobs and snot when I was 17. When I didn't eat for two weeks straight, existing only on cigarettes (THREE packs a day) and pink lemonade. The same hurt that caused me to turn from the one who cared about me the most in this world, turn and ran straight into the arms of another person who would inflict wound upon wound on my already beaten and battered skin.

Thinking back on it now, I was only running because I was wounded. And because I saw the stability that the Cheshire Cat offered me. The stability that scared the shit out of me. I've never been the sort of character who wanted that type of thing. I've always wanted explosion and dum dum bullets riccoheting off the walls. I've wanted an adversary, an equal. Someone who always kept me guessing.

The Cheshire Cat couldn't offer me that, bless his sweet heart. And neither could Richard, though I fooled myself into believing he could. I still don't have it. And that thought leaves me shaking to my very bones because I don't wish to cause the same pain on the Engineer as has been brought onto me.

It would seem that the only people who I've ever truly given myself over to were the ones who inflicted the most soul crushing pain. The liars. The cheaters. The boys who made me feel stupid and worthless. The ones who were light years ahead of me. And when they disappeared for good, I was left on the floor. Bleeding, panting, and broken.

And craving even more.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

A month ago I would have told you that while I was over Richard, I still loved him deeply. Now, after speaking to him at length this week (goddamn you unemployment), he only leaves me cold. Sad that I'm not the same girl who fell in love with him. And disappointed at what he did to me. But still, cold.

There's nothing left in my chest for him. The thought of him doesn't gives me a twinge anymore, except of annoyance at the lies he dropped on my flighty little skull. However, thoughts of the Antichrist will reduce me to a blithering wreck. Memories of Chris will send me into a depression for weeks.

But, the wounds from Richard seem to be closing over. They're not the deep and scarring knife edges that I once thought they were. If this maturity? Or yet another sickness festering away inside the rot I call a brain?

Another cigarette.With my hood pulled over my face, I am the blind girl. I can sit here and dream of things that never were. Even if I do sincerely remember.

Psuedo-existence.

I remember dancing through the streets of London, singing accompianment to him and the passerby amusement. The night sky of Piccadilly Circus was like nothing I'd ever seen before, though at the same time, it remained heartbreakingly familar.

I remember London. It exists, if only inside my head. I echo our words, soft and under breath, from that night.Oh, give me a home...

London, the bitch queen of cities. Carrie may have her New York City, but my home has always been in London. As much as I hate it now, it still reverberates throughout my skin.

I'd like to think that one day, I'll return to it. See the ravens and the watchtowers. I'd like to think that. But, I doubt it will ever come to pass.

I remember his face, cold and pale. It rose above the collar of his King Mob coat like the waxing moon on a November night. I remember his smile, though I haven't seen it since.

Flash backwards, to a younger girl. A younger time. Everything is green and I sit on a swingset, dragging my feet. He sits by me, whispering little songs that onlymy ears can decipher. 'You are written on the underside of my skin', I say to him. Jump frog, jump.

I know somehow that he does not remember this night. No memory of how I sighed and continually turned my face away, so he wouldn't be able to read the desire imprinted upon it. He holds my hand, sometimes. I remember his smile, though I haven't seen it in quite some time.

Flash forward a small bit, one or maybe even two years. We stand on a sand dune, quietly alone with a blanket wrapped round our shoulders. Struck dumb by his senseless beauty and the utterly foreign concept that someone of his stature would be enamoured with small, stunted me.

He speaks of rollarcoasters and butterflies. My stomach ties itself in knots, as his kiss unties my mouth. The sky swirls heady all around me and I want nothing more than for him to devour me.

I remember his smile, though only when I look at his photograph. I'll never see that again, however. He is as lost to me as London and my heart.

The three. My trinity of hopebreakers.

I can only take comfort in the fact that they each, in turn, allowed me to warm my hands and face by their fires.

Even if they didn't know it, they kept me warm. However brief it was. I give them up to the passing of time, the ticking of clocks. And turn myself towards the future. Whatever that may bring.

I don't wish to be myself anymore. I want to bea doll. Or a betta fish. Or a tea cup. A woodenspoon.

I don't want to be me, anymore.I want to be something beautiful. Somethingreal. He told me that I wasn't real, a longtime ago. Not in so many words and he triedto retract the statement later on, but that'swhat he said. I know it.

I don't want this life anymore. I want someoneelse's. I want to be a thousand different girls.Pretty girls. Girls with pretty things to say.

I don't really know what to say, most of the time.Me, the girl with the words. The one who makes people hide under their blankets or cry overlong forgotten memories. I never know what to say.

I cover it up well, don't I?Sometimes, I talk so much that it annoys even me.Yammering away like some vacant eyed fool.

But, when it comes down to it, what am I reallysaying to people? What am I asking for?

Am I truly asking for the hurt which winds upbeing inflicted upon my person? Do I ask for themental trauma and anguish? Am I begging to bestabbed in the back? What?

Many years ago, I was labelled as being "strong".I'd been through a lot more than what most peoplemy age have experienced. And my friends andaquaintences decided that because I survivedthese skirmishes, I must be a strong person.

What if I don't want to be strong? I'm sick ofit. I'm so very tired of having to keep my headheld high, the smile on my face. Even if it'sa sad, knowing smile really. What if I'm tired ofturning the other cheek and allowing that suckerpunch?

I don't want to be a fighter anymore. I want tobe weak. I want to be the wailing Victorian lady,who gnashes her teeth and rends her hair. I wantto be the girl who swoons at a harsh word.Two words: delicate constitution. I want to beallowed to scream epithets into the phone longdistance at three o'clock in the morning. I wantto send hateful, psychotic letters. I want myreply to "I'm sorry for hurting you" to be "FUCKYOU, ASSHOLE! YOU'VE RUINED MY LIFE!!" I wantto inflict bodily harm upon myself. I want toinflict bodily harm upon other people. I want toboil his fucking rabbit in a pot on his own stovewhen he's away from the house. He doesn't evenown a bunny and I would never do that to ananimal, but I still WANT. I'm tired of having a backbone. I want people to coddle me.

Why?

Because the strong aren't cared about. Peopleblithely hurt them because they know that thestrong always survive their wounds. Peoplethink strong people "can take it".

The strong are powerless to change their Fate.They will always be the one left holding thecar door open in the rain. They're always the oneswho get the door slammed in their face. They arethe ones who get kicked in the teeth and stabbedin the back.

Last night, I spoke to Pixie on AIM. We werebeing girly. Giggling and talking about mushyheads. Being silly. Things that I don't normallydo with other girls. I've never been someone whohad close girlfriends. I've only one or two.Now I have a third and this makes me happy.

But, she said something last night which mademe cry. Not because it was mean or hateful, butbecause I wanted so badly to make her life beautiful for her and I know that I can't. It'snot within my power. It's not my story to write.

She was telling me that I would get what I wanted,and I was denying it. I asked how she knew.She said because I wasn't her. And she never getswhat she wants.

So, I cried.

This morning, I spoke to Matthew on AIM. Thetwo of us are like the walking fucking woundedright now. Both hurting and hateful and angry.The Hearse Girl got on a plane last night,bound for a land that should have mine. Thatprobably would have been, if I weren't such afuck-up.

She got on a plane. And I sat here, last night,with a Jack on ice, wishing that it would goup in flames. And then feeling terribly guiltyfor having such nasty thoughts.

And I cried this morning, as I was talking withMatthew, when he asked how I was doing. I criedas I typed and told him about hateful thoughtsand drinking alone.

Everything has begun to hit me. And it's likea sack of bricks, come down on my head. I thoughtthat I was okay. I thought that I was coping. Isuppose that's because the fact of what's gone onwasn't a true reality until yesterday. Or to bemore specific, last week. When I was told thatplane tickets had been gotten and that there wasan actual date of departure.

That was supposed to be my life. And I hate bothof them for it. Something which I've neveradmitted to anyone. That I do, in fact, hate them.

I'll never say it out loud, though.

I hate them because I put so much of myself intosomething for almost two years. And it wasapparently a futile effort. I hate them becauseI tried so goddamn hard to be a good person,an understanding girl. Only to have the dirt kicked in my face as I was down. I hate thembecause I held hopes. And because I had faith.And trust, though it is the most difficult thingin the world for me to trust someone.

I hate them because they hurt me, despite the factthat it wasn't maliciously or on purpose.

I also hate them because it echoes back to whatI did to the Cheshire Cat, when I leftPhiladelphia with my heart in a suitcase. I'mseeing the repurcussions of my own leaving andfeeling his pain, only now the positions arereversed and I'm the one who's heartsick.

I hate them because they've shown me exactly howhorrible and unthinking of a person I was.

A month or so ago, the Engineer and I were havinga conversation about what I did. I had madethe comment that what is happening to me mustbe the punishment for all my former sins. Hesighed and said "Where's the chaos girl? It'sonly a punishment if you want it to be."

Another time, he and I got into an argumentbecause I've remained friends with Richard. He'snever done such a thing because he feels it onlyleads to getting back with the person (by hispersonal experience). He said it was unforgivablewhat Richard had done to me and what the HearseGirl had done to Matthew. He made the commentthat it was something a bad person would do (I'mroughly paraphrasing here, I don't rememberthe exact words).

I sucked in my breath and told him that made mea bad person because I had done practically thesame thing to the Cheshire Cat. He looked at meand asked "You're never going to forgive yourselffor that, are you?"

Am I? I don't think so.

He gets upset because I won't always talk aboutwhat's bothering me. Fact of the matter is(and I write this, knowing full well that he willread it) that I don't always wish to expressmyself. I don't always want to give voice to thepain in my head, despite the fact that it causesworry in those who care about me. Sometimes, I just want to feel the pain for what it is.Sometimes, I don't know HOW to talk about it. Andsometimes, I just don't feel like talking aboutit at all.

Foolish and selfish, I know. I recognisethose two traits in me. I give credit wherecredit is due, I would reckon.

I don't want to talk about it because itmakes me feel stupid for having trusted someoneto such a degree. I don't want to talk about itbecause I'm tired of hearing how rotten somebodywas to me. I don't want to talk about it becausehearing how rotten somebody was to me makes MEfeel rotten for having done almost the same thingto someone else. I don't want to talk about itbecause I feel pathetic. I don't want pity. I just want my life to go back to whatever degreeof normalcy I can potentially achieve right now.

This isn't said in anger. I'm just tired ofhurting. I want to heal and be clean again. It'sgoing to take me quite some time and I can'tpromise that I'll be the same girl at the endof it. I've been burned, quite badly, and firealways changed what it touches. Sometimes forthe good. Sometimes not.

I'm not always sad. I'm not always the brokengirl, crying her heart out. I can smile, still.I can find happiness in the things and peopleI love. It's just not always going to be a constant, running pattern. I'm going to be down.I'm going to be reminded of something from mypast every once in awhile.

I've just come home from a war. Now is the timefor me to build myself back up again. Pixie'sentry in her own journal last night spoke of howshe used to have small wings, but time and peopleand circumstances plucked the feathers from themuntil there was nothing left but bony nubs. Andhow now, she's growing them back to be morebeautiful than they were before. But, it's goingto hurt for a long time as they're reforming.

This is what is happening to me, as well.

I'm growing back my wings.

It's going to take time, patience, and a hell ofa lot of courage. On my part and the parts ofeveryone who comes into contact with me.

The idea has been turning over in my head forquite some time. Way back when, I did attendschool. But, it was art school and a stinky one,at that. Furthermore, I was tremendously messedup on various drugs and emotional/mental problems.So, I wound up dropping out.

Now, I've made the step to go back. Just notto that school. This one is going to be MercerCounty College in Trenton. Which will be keenbecause the Engineer has applied for the bronzefoundry which is up in that city. So, my fearsof not being able to see him as much will beslightly diminished.

I'm going for mortuary sciences. How verysp00ky. But, it is something which I have agreat interest in. Especially the restorativearts part of it.

I'm going to be a mortician. :)

Things have been quiet, for the most part.Which the exception of me going on profanityfull rants of how much I dislike certain peoplewhom I have the joy of working with.

Not only that, but the Orphan has not contactedme in any way, shape, or form since his lastemail stating he wasn't contacting me anymore.

B. O. O. H. O. O.

I'm still quite angry over the things which hesaid, the things he accused me of. I do not lie.I am not a liar. If I didn't want to take thatroad trip to Wisconsin, then I would have said so.But, the fact of the matter is that my car wasnot repaired in time (the mechanic died). And Iwasn't able to get my license in time. The WeeOne went, despite all of this, catching a ridewith an ex of hers. He didn't want to listen toany of this. So instead, I was branded a liar.My scarlet letter to be worn, I suppose. I don'treally care.

I've been feeling strange and out of sorts lately,which prompts the Engineer to ask me if somethingis wrong. He says I look like something isbothering me. Which something usually is, but it'srarely, if ever, having anything to do with him.Things just bother me, I'm too sensitive towhat's around me.

Like last night, I was turning over in my headsomething that the Hearse Girl had written inher Netscrape on AG in response to "Do you havea webpage?" Her answer was "No, webpages attractfat chicks."

Which bothers me. Because originally, that'show Richard and I met. I saw his webpage (takenfrom the URL in his .sig on AG) and I emailedhim about it, since there was no guestbook. And her comment makes me wonder if it was directedtowards me. Or if it was just a usual, snarkyHearse Girl comment (for which she is knownfor). It still bothers me, because it makes mewonder what he's told her about me.

I shouldn't care. But, I still do. For as muchas I talk about not caring what people say aboutme, I still do. It hurts to know that I've beentalked badly about. Especially when I've donenothing to warrant it. Which, in this case atleast, I haven't.

Do you know how moths kamikaze themselvesagainst light sources? How they bang themselvesagainst the glass, over and over and over?

That's me.

Only my source of light is actually pain.And I throw myself at it constantly. To thepoint I am exhausted and battered. Slightlybroken.

Broken. Why would anybody want something thatis so damaged? I'm defective to begin with,but now I'm also damaged. Why the HELL wouldanybody want to even come within six feet of me?

I'm loved. I'm told that I'm loved constantly.

And I don't believe him. Not really. Why wouldyou put someone you alledgely love so muchthrough all of this pain? Why would you sitand listen to what they say would kill themand then blithely go about doing it? Howthe FUCK does that make any sense?

I'm resigned to the fact that things areslowly doing down the drain. That I will bekicked to the side of the road come August,at the very least. That history is, yes indeed,repeating itself. Just like I always said itwould.

I don't care anymore. I don't. I'm so sickof being hurt and going through my days likethe walking wounded. I'm tired of being the object of anger and disappointment because Iexpress how I feel. And I'm heartily sick ofplacation and lies.

I've fairly much resigned myself to the fact thatI am indeed losing Richard. I don't hold toomuch hope at the moment. Only sometimes does thisbother me, as I've grown so very weary offighting what seems to be a losing battle, at itsvery best.

Is it beating a dead horse? Or fighting to survive? I can't tell the difference anymore.And my heart has been so scattered lately thatI'm unable to pinpoint how I feel about anything.All I know is that I feel strongly. What I feelstrongly about is anyone's guess. I'm all outof answers at the moment.

*sighs*

I have fleeting moments of happiness, found inunexpected places. I'm shocked at the level ofcontentment that I've found in these unexpectedplaces, as well.Sometimes you meet people that you just *click*with. I've met one of those people. I wonder ifthere is a reason for that? Or if it's justanother event in my life, lying in wait for meto turn it upside down.

Richard tells me that he loves me. That he'll never stop. He tells me that he doesn't want tolose me, always wants me in his life. But, hiswords ring so very hollow as of late. And itpains me to no extent. I try to be cheerful.I keep the painted smile on under my mask, justin case it slips. But, it wears on me. More thanI can take? I'm not sure.

It's just so goddamn hard to be hopeful whenI feel as if everything which I've worked for inthe past year and a half is slowly spiraling downthe drain and there isn't a fucking thing I cando to stop it. Or even if I /want/ to stop it.

I don't know anything anymore. I don't knowwhat I'm feeling. I don't know how to vocaliseit to anyone around me. I've been hiding from myfriends because it tires me out to continuallyput on a show of "I'm not upset. No. Really."

The Goose brings me out of my shell with kindwords and kisses. He helps me. He amazes me.He quotes the Simpsons and makes me laugh untilI can't breathe. He loves me and I welcome it.I feel things for him which I'm afraid of puttinginto words, for fear it will bring down a mightyjinx that I am all too familar of.

I think what all of this boils down to is that I'm afraid. I'm afraid of giving up. I'm afraidof going on. I'm scared of leaving or staying.

I've managed to fuck things up yet AGAIN betweenme and Richard. Because I didn't know when toquit. I didn't know when to let something drop.I didn't know when to just shut my fuckingmouth and let him talk to me at his own pace.

*sighs*

So. Now all of my preceding worries and fearshave all now become insignificant in the faceof this new worry/fear. The idea that he's not sure if he's in love with me.

I was trying to be cute. I was trying to makehim feel better about things. He had said "I wish I really could be of more use right now." To which I asked "Well, do you love me?"

Him: Yes.

Me: And are you still /in/ love with me?

Him: I'm not sure. I feel detached and stressed and I can't really think or deal with anything lately.

I had thought he would tell me yes, of coursehe still was. And I was going to say "See?You're a big help." maybe with a littlesmiley face at the end of my sentence (thisconvo took place online, by the way).

I suppose I shouldn't have expected anythingfrom him. Another lesson to not expect anythingfrom anybody. Ever. Another lesson to nottrust. Another. Fucking. Lesson.

I'm sick of them. I'm sick of being hurt. I'msick of walking around in a constant haze ofpain brought onto me by myself and other people.

I don't know what to do anymore.I don't know what to think anymore.I don't know what to feel anymore.

(2.) He hurts me. He makes me feel like whatI want or need doesn't matter to him, becausehe doesn't take it into consideration when I say"If you do *this*, then I'll leave you." Heonly offers vague, semi-promises. "I'm notinclined to do *that*"

(3.) It makes me feel like shit. And then feelinglike shit makes me feel like shit.

(4.) If I could quit being such a jealous bitch...

(5.) Kisses are good. Kisses are god-like. Iwant kisses right this second. Kisses which saya million things without saying a word were onmy mind all day long at work.

(6.) I wonder sometimes if I'm just destinedto be old, alone, and afraid.

(7.) 'Twas brillig. 'Twas brillig. 'Twas brillig.

(8.) I forget what eight was for.

(9.) Ducks are keen. So are geese. One specificGoose comes to mind.

(10.) "And if I wear Apathy's crown, don't callme Highness. Cause it's a long way down."

(11.) I wish I had that song on CD, so I couldput it on a mixed tape.

(12.) I'm feeling things right now which I haveno right to be feeling. That's why I don'tvocalise them.

I'm not sure how I feel about all of this, justyet. He thinks that backing off a bit will helpclear our heads and help us not be so depressedand miserable all the time. Perhaps it will. Perhaps it won't.

I'm still convinced that in a few months time,I'll be nothing more than a painful, sad memory.Yet another psycho ex who has a hard timeletting go.

I don't really know what to do.

He's also been talking about inviting someoneto stay with him for a bit this summer, so he'snot so lonely. He asked me what I thought I woulddo if he "misbehaved". My answer was that I wouldforgive him, as I recognise the fact that he'sonly human and terribly lonely for human contact.He told me that he almost wished I'd said I'dnever speak to him again if something like thathappened, as it would stop him from commitingthe actual act for fear of me removing myselffrom his life.

This bothers me as I've always felt that ina relationship, you stayed faithful to theperson not because of fear that would leave you,not because you didn't want to hurt them, notbecause you have respect for them. But, becauseyou /love/ them.

So, I can't win on anything apparently. Tellhim "Yes, I'd forgive you." as I'm trying to bea sweet, understanding girlfriend and I getshafted. Tell him "No, I'd never speak to youever again." as a psycho, controlling girlfriendand I get shafted.

*sighs*

In an email which I received yesterday, he wrotethat since we've made this decision, he feelsa lot better. That before, he felt as if hewere in a room, with a locked door. And nowthat the door is unlocked, it makes him happier.Even if he has no intention of going throughthe door or even peeping through it, knowingthat it's unlocked is a benefit.

I don't care for that analogy very much. Hesays he's just bad at making analogies andwasn't saying what he wanted to say correctly.

Not knowing what to think anymore, terriblyconfused, and hurting more than I can evenbegin to describe. That's me, in a nutshell.

Bubble in my chest. Racking old man cough loudenough to wake the neighbours. If they were stillasleep, that is. Which they shouldn't be. And ifthey are, then they're all a bunch of slackers.

Oh, Engineer....?

I'm trying very diligently to not focus on theconversation which I had with Richard last night.I'm trying so hard to not remember the twistmy heart did in my chest, the draining drop.It's such a familiar feeling. I just never thoughtthat even in a million years he would be theone causing it.

I try to be a perfect girl. But, I fall terriblyshort. Constantly. Always. I try so hard to liveup to peoples' expectations. I do nothing butland flat on my face.

I'm tired of trying, to be quite honest. And I'mgetting most tired of breathing.

He used to have such different opinions and ideasabout where he wanted this relationship to go.That's all changed now and he is full of doubt.When did that happen? And was I so blindlyimmersed in my own self-centeredness that I didn'ttake notice?

I'm smoking. Though I know that I shouldn't be.It would seem that I am in the beginning stagesof bronchitis, though I haven't gone to thedoctor yet to verify this. Fuck it. I'm an addictand I need my fix.

I've also got a terrible amount of things on mymind right now. The fear of finally crackingis ever present, what a surprise.

I'm wavering right now inbetween mania anddepression. The smallest things will set me offin either direction. Being ill isn't helping matters any, as I'm already weakened when I'min that state. Add on top that I haven't beeneating much over the past few days and it allsums itself into a neat, little weak package.

I should really go to bed soon, but I trulycan't be bothered.

Richard sent me an email today in reply to something I'd written to him about me havingto wear masks all the time. About how when Iget depressed and surly with him, that's whenthe mask slips. He doesn't understand why Ifeel the need to wear one around everyone I know.Hell, I don't completely understand why I do.It's mostly just self preservation. Not thatit works, really. But, it gives me the illusionof safety.

And that's all I truly want. To be safe from harm. No more pain.

It's so hard to continue in an endeavour whenalmost all you feel is pain. It's hard to keepsomeone's face in your heart when the memoryof them does nothing but strike daggers. And it'shard beyond all possible belief when every breath serves no other purpose other thandrawing pain upon your person.

I'm beginning to feel the run away urge again.Something which I haven't felt in a long, longtime. Run. Hide. Become a new person. Dissolvethe old. Focus only on the new.

How many more times can I continue that pattern?I'm so sick of being an ostrich, with my headin the sand. But, what other alternative isthere?